All Your Problems Are Back To Stay
by Kin-Cryptid
Summary: Finally, after so long of looking for something he could take solace in, he'd found it - the one thing that could take him away from the problems that plagued him and finally make him feel okay. But it quickly grows out of hand as he finds himself being pulled deeper into his mistaken miracle and he's falling fast. [TW, substance abuse, drug abuse, addiction][Personal vent tbh]


**Self indulgent fic that I wrote to vent my frustrations. Big trigger warnings for drug abuse, substance abuse, addiction, xanax, etc.**

The first time he had heard of it was when they were doing an essay on disorders. He, of course, had been assigned to complex post traumatic stress disorder, and that alone had made his mood plummet as soon as he saw the assignment. He tried to ask if he could change the assignment, but Lancer's back was already facing towards him as he called out who would research what, not stopping in his role call.

So he sunk back into his seat, shoulders hunched, as he stared down at the piece of paper given to him. It was simple instructions - the standard way you were supposed to write an essay, formatting, all that stuff he cared nothing about. But the part that really nagged at him was that he would have to describe the- could he even call it a disorder? It didn't seem like a disorder to him, it seemed logical. Of course someone was going to be mentally unsound after drastic, horrible events happened to them. It was a consequence and a curse, not a disorder.

He quickly shook the thought away, shuffling his papers into order on his desk and praying that Lancer hadn't caught his lapse in attention, which, thankfully, he hadn't. Toying with his pencil, which gradually found its way between his teeth, he tried to pay attention to the lesson at hand, but something Lancer had said was sticking with him and continuing to replay in his head, as though the priority of it in itself was the only thing that mattered.

That night, when he went home, he got on his computer and googled the word that he had heard - sure, he'd mispelled it, replacing an a with an e, but it yielded typically the same result as he leaned in closer to the screen, heart nearly seizing as he gazed upon what it was describing for the definition of the word. Doubts and flurries of uncontrolled, panicked thoughts peppered his brain, vision temporarily gaining black, floating spots before he managed to lean back in his chair, inhaling and exhaling heavily.  
Xanax.

From what he could see, it was basically a miracle drug - it was supposed to relax you, could make you feel happy (he didn't really understand that one, but he shrugged and scrolled down anyways.), slowed down the world as a whole, prevented and relieved anxiety and panic attacks, and even treated depression! He only skimmed the negative effects it could have, as long as this worked, he'd be perfect and everything would be okay again.

A week or so later, he'd found a dealer and exchanged his allowance for the bars. Now, he sat in his bedroom, staring down at one of the pills in anxiety and apprehension - he wanted this. He knew he wanted this, but he was scared of what could happen. Inhaling deeply, he tilted his head back and threw the pill back, washing it down with a cup of lukewarm water. The feeling of the pill going down his throat made him shudder and cringe, but if it did what it was supposed to, it'd all be worth it.

And so he waited.

And waited.

By the time twenty minutes had gone by, he was beginning to lose hope in the supposed miracle worker he'd found when it hit - and boy, did it hit hard. He couldn't even stand up, the sudden feeling of euphoria overwhelming him. He knew there was a risk of getting high, but this? This was heaven - he'd never felt so good, so _happy_ in his life. He found himself rubbing his cheek against the blanket he held in a loose grip. He was smiling, but then, suddenly, tears were flooding down his cheeks as relieved sobs escaped his mouth, prompting a hand to lazily clamp over it as he tried to muffle his cries. It just felt - so _good_. After so long, he finally felt _okay_.

He felt drowsy, but it was nothing compared to the euphoric feeling he had right now, fighting to stay awake just so that he could enjoy the feeling for however long it lasted. But, apparently, the first dose was very potent, as the next thing he knew, he was blinking open his eyes groggily and groaning as he stretched, curling up under the blanket. His head felt fuzzy, and his cheeks felt heavier than usual, almost like there was guaze stuffed in his cranium and cheeks, or maybe he had an allergic reaction.  
At that point, however, he could care less, as this was truly a miracle worker.  
For now.

It had only been five or so months when the effects of the drugs began to dwindle, leaving him with his body waiting for that high to hit but never getting what it craved. It kept him up at night, clawing at his hair and trying to stifle his heavy breathing - he felt feverish. He needed more. But, as always, he was scared of overdosing or doing some stupid shit like that. He knew his father was an alcoholic, and he didn't want to become anything like that.

But after three nights of little to no sleep and the torment of paranoia and the need to run, he upped the dosage. And continued to do so every time it felt as though he wasn't getting enough. Within seven months, he was completely attached to it - Tucker and Sam would always give him odd looks when he was on it, often commenting on how relaxed he was and that it was great that he was loosening up a bit.

Jazz kept silent, and the rest of his family was unaware.

That is, until they found his small stash inside his dresser drawer - he could admit it was a terrible, awful spot to try and hide something so vital, but he was often in too much of a hurried rush to be able to think coherently until he had his fix, and even then, his thoughts were slurred and elongated. They took them, starting to ween him off of it - 1.5 milligrams was what he was currently at.  
They tried 1 milligram, but it just wasn't enough, the nights he spent awake with his nails raking through scars and blemishes on his body until he finally passed out, the blood not even bothering to stain his mattress or sheets to show the strife he was experiencing. They could tell that he needed it at this point, often questioning him why he didn't just get diagnosed and prescribed the medication, but his mouth was sealed, his only answer being a shake of his head.

So they started to ease up a little bit on the usage of it, and he went back to 1.5 milligrams, but this time, not even that was enough, and he wanted to scream in frustration, cry, maybe break something or run away, do something self destructive - _anything_ to get those endorphins. He was lost, and he didn't know what to do, and it seemed neither did his parents, as they lied to the therapist about how much he was taking - apparently he needed it that badly.

He was just so fucking tired of having nothing to rely on.


End file.
